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tchallasbabymama · 3 years

Text

Bambi

Hey y’all, here’s Chapter 7 of Playlist.

Check out my masterlist HERE to catch up and read my other stories. Let me know if you want to be tagged!

Word count: 6300

“Ashanti”

The name passed over the king’s lips as his fiancee watched him toss and turn in his sleep. Tamala didn’t know what to do. She was so angry she wanted to smother him with his stupid silk pillows, but didn’t want to risk the whole “charged with having committed a regicide” thing. She wanted to know who this Ashanti bitch was and why her man was dreaming about her with a smile on his face. She made a mental note to butter Shuri up and ask her tomorrow.

The king rolled over away from her and continued to dream about the elusive Ashanti while Tamala snuggled deeper into the covers as a tear came to her eye. She knew he didn’t feel as strongly for her as she did for him, but she hadn’t considered there could be another woman. Could she work in the palace? Is this Ashanti even Wakandan? He travelled so much, it was a possibility…

Tamala sighed and then closed her eyes, allowing sleep to take her, but her dreams were nowhere near as good as T’Challa’s. In his dream, he and Ashanti were making love on a white sand beach on a secluded island off the coast of Greece. Every kiss, every touch felt real. He could smell the sea salt and feel her warm skin against his. The taste of her pussy lingered on his lips as he buried himself inside her over and over and over again. Unfortunately, outside of his dreamland his body was responding to his subconscious in ways he had no control over.

By the time he woke up around 6 in the morning his dick was hard as a rock. He silently shuffled out of the bed and to the bathroom, trying in vain not to wake Tamala. When she heard the bathroom door close she sat up in a huff, ready for him to come back out so she could confront him about this Ashanti girl. She waited and waited for several minutes before she got up and walked towards the bathroom door. She pushed it open slightly and caught sight of her fiance stroking his gorgeous dick in the shower. Any other time she would have gladly gotten on her knees for him at the sight, but this time it just made her sick. Even more so when she heard that name slip out his mouth again.

“Ashanti, mmm fuck just like that.”

Tamala closed the door and went back to bed, facing away from T’Challa’s side. When he returned, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her in close. Normally she would give in to his desire for morning sex even though she preferred sex before bed, but this time she pretended to be sleep. She just couldn’t face him yet.

T’Challa was only mildly disappointed, he didn’t enjoy sex with Tamala very much but she was there and he was horny. He wasn’t proud of feeling that way, but at least he was faithful to his fiancee in his waking hours. He still wished he didn’t have to marry her, but at this point he couldn’t back out or his immigration proposal wouldn’t go through. The council had all the leverage over him, so he felt like he had no choice. Tamala was tolerable most days, so he could manage a loveless marriage for the rest of his life, but as far as children went, they had yet to come to an agreement. T’Challa just wanted one or two, but Tamala wanted a whole tribe of little Udakus. Just the thought of it made T’Challa nauseous, but he knew he and Tamala would have to produce at least one heir to the throne. He shuddered at the thought, not of fucking her but of that being the future he had to look forward to.

As much as he tried to not be, T’Challa was still in love with Ashanti in his waking hours, too. Everything reminded him of her, from his mother’s flowers to rainstorms…she loved the rain. He still listened to their combined playlist from time to time, reminiscing on the few short months it took for him to fall head over heels in love. He wished a lot of things in regards to Ashanti, but mostly he wished they had more time together before things went south. Maybe then she would have been able to trust him more and she wouldn’t have left…

It was a dangerous line of thinking that T’Challa cut off when it reared its ugly head. All the what-ifs were almost as bad for him as his guilty conscience, so he shook himself out of it and got up to start his day. As soon as Tamala heard the door shut she let out the tears she had been holding on to. She got up to go shower and get dressed, too. She had a long day ahead trying to figure out who this Ashanti bitch was, and her first stop would be his little sister.

——-

Oh, oh, oh

Mmm mmm mmm

Bambi, Bambi

(Ba bam bam bi)

My dear, my dear, my dear

(Ba bam bam bi)

My dear, I want you here

(Bambi)

Don’t get too near for there’s lions, beware

(Mmm bam bam bi)

Oh Bambi I won’t lie

If I weren’t in this spiderweb of mine

If grandfather never had seven wives

Then darling you would be love of my life

Oh Bambi it’s my design

To run the jungle I must be a lion

Or be a cheetah but neither is fine

Don’t wanna hurt my dear love of my life

Bambi, Bambi

(Ba bam bam bi)

My dear, my dear, my dear

(Ba bam bam bi)

My dear, I want you here

(Bambi)

Don’t get too near for there’s lions, beware

(Mmm bam bam bi)

Ashanti sang along to the song with Binta as they glided around the kitchen cooking dinner.

“Girrrrl, I just want Jidenna to spank the fuck out of me. I’d be like ‘thank you sir, another?’” Binta swooned at his voice coming through the speakers.

“That man is capital ‘f’ fine. ‘Ruin my uterus and my life’ fine.” Ashanti joked as Kwame entered the room, swaying to the catchy beat.

“This Jidenna?” he asked.

“Mmmhm.”

“You already know,” they both answered at the same time.

“He’s ‘spit in my mouth daddy’ fine” he added.

“Ew, that’s gross!” Binta screamed at her brother while Ashanti had sex flashbacks to her time with T’Challa. There were several times he would have her stick out her tongue and he would spit in her mouth to remind her she was his dirty little-

“Ashanti!” Kwame yelled.

“Huh?”

“Girl were you even listening?” Binta asked her, knife in hand as she cut up the yams for dinner.

“Honestly no, this conversation has me horny as fuck.” she decided it was best to be partially honest, but not all the way. They didn’t need to know she was fantasizing about her ex, she’d let them continue to think she’s talking about the man behind the smooth voice tickling their ears.

“I can’t even blame you,” Binta said as the twins both laughed. Ashanti joined in and went back to her task at hand, but eventually her mind drifted back to T’Challa, “Bambi” providing the perfect soundtrack for the melancholy feeling she got from those bittersweet memories.

Sometimes I hide

When you FaceTime I text you back a lie

‘Cause I’m afraid to look back in your eyes

I’m terrified you were love of my life

The women among the tribe

They will be jealous of this lullaby

I’ll drink alone in my hotel and cry

'Cause now they know you are love of my life

Bambi, Bambi

(Ba bam bam bi)

My dear, my dear, my dear

(Ba bam bam bi)

My dear, I want you here

(Bambi)

Don’t get too near for there’s lions, beware

(Mmm bam bam bi)

Ashanti was on autopilot through dinner and was relieved to make it back to her room so she could be alone with her feelings. She missed T’Challa. Seeing him at the bazaar the other day only made things worse. She had been doing well, but then when he was in front of her and that same powerful aura she missed so much engulfed her, he had her in his trap once again. If she hadn’t left when she did she would’ve completely forgotten about the man’s fiancee and jumped on him then and there. All those feelings came rushing back to her as the smell of his cologne wafted her way and she knew she had to get out of there before she made a fool of herself. For good measure, she twisted her hips a little more as she walked away and she was sure she could feel his stare on her behind as it twitched out of view.

To distract herself, she decided to work on a necklace commissioned by the River tribe elder, but Jidenna’s words haunted her as her fingers attempted to wire-wrap a large lapis lazuli crystal point.

I wish that we were forever young

I always knew that this day would come

The fork in the road where I cannot run

Between love and many I’m loving one

I got the wedding invitation, Bambi

I’m happy that he wants to make a family

But I cannot promise I won’t run up in the church

There screaming your name, Bambi

No one can take you from me, Bambi

Bambi, Bambi

(Ba bam bam bi)

My dear, I want you here

(Ba bam bam bi)

Oh baby, don’t get too near

(Ba bam bam bi)

Oh oh oh, there are lions, beware

(Mmm bam bam bi)

Mmm mmm mmm

I don’t wanna see the wedding

I just wanna see my baby

Most times Ashanti loved when music spoke to her in that way, but this time she just wanted to block out his words.

The wedding…

The fiancee…

She knew her pining was in vain, and that just made it hurt more. She missed him and regretted her decision, but she really did try hard to not let it get to her. She brought it up with Jamila in therapy and they’ve spent the last couple sessions talking about that regret and learning to forgive herself. She understood the mindset she was in when she made the decision to end things, and she couldn’t fault herself for doing so out of fear. She just wished she could go back in time and do it over, or come to this realization much quicker. Now she had to see wedding coverage on every screen and hologram in the damn country. “What will the princess be wearing?”, “Will the king and future queen have a traditional wedding or more modern?”, and “Royal baby predictions: about a year?” were just some of the Bast-awful headlines she had tried to ignore as of late. It was beginning to be a bit much and she considered going on vacation until after they married since it was only a month away. She had plenty saved up and had never really done anything like that before, so she figured she’d give it a try and take herself on vacation.

Ashanti found a quaint little Air BnB in New Orleans that was well within her budget and allowed for long-term stays. She booked it on the spot, before looking for flights out of the new Wakanda International Airport and found a round trip ticket to New Orleans for $45. Once she paid, her heart rate started to pick up. She was really doing this, she was going to go to a whole other country on her own…and she needed to get a passport asap.

——-

T’Challa was hoping to fly under the radar, and so far the shades and hood seemed to be working. He had left his Dora Milaje back at the palace, much to Okoye’s dismay, because he wanted to do this alone. He wasn’t even sure what this is, but he knew he had to do something.

The king stealthily made his way to the heart of the city. He knew it was probably a bad idea, but he just had to see her again. He walked with the hustle and bustle of the crowds, going unnoticed and therefore not having the luxury of them clearing the path for him. He didn’t mind though, they weren’t rude about it.

As he waited to cross the street he noticed the kid next to him staring at him a little too hard. He checked his surroundings and lifted his shades, sending her a wink. She flashed a snaggletooth smile before saluting him and carrying on her way with her mama. T’Challa shook his head, thinking of the baby girl he wanted to have one day. Wakanda’s future queen.

Speaking of future queens, his wrist vibrated and he looked down to see that Tamala had texted him asking where he was. He rolled his eyes and ignored the message, turning the beads off for the time being.

When Taj’s was in view he stopped walking, disrupting the flow of foot traffic. A couple people cursed him out for blocking the street before he realized he was in the way. He stood on the sidewalk, staring into the storefront. He could make out her profile as she spoke to a customer and the king couldn’t help but stare at her beauty.

The king tried to take a step towards the shop, but didn’t move. He tried again, but was still glued to the spot. His legs had turned to stone and he couldn’t lift his feet to move in her direction. His eyes stayed zeroed-in on her. He watched in awe as her coily hair bounced while she nodded her head, and he missed how she spoke with her hands…it had really been too long. He tried with all his might to move again, but he was still frozen on the spot. He had decided to turn around and go back to the palace when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned to see who it was, and a smile appeared on his face.

“Bisa!”

“Hi dear,” she hugged him and looked over his shoulder at Taj’s to see that Ashanti was still busy and had turned so that her back was facing the window.

“How are you?”

“I should be asking you the same question, out here in disguise spying on my daughter,” she said playfully.

T’Challa laughed as they sat down at a table inside the Mostafa’s restaurant.

“I had planned to actually say something instead of just spying, but I, uh, lost my nerve it seems. I couldn’t go to her.”

There was silence for a moment before Bisa spoke up.

“You still love her?”

T’Challa grew silent again, knowing he shouldn’t say what he most certainly said next.

“Yes, I do.”

Bisa sat back in her chair with a satisfied smirk on her face.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yes, good. She still loves you, too. She won’t admit it though. She’s worked through her fear in therapy, but those feelings for you haven’t gone anywhere.” She noticed a tear falling from the king’s eye and she reached out to wipe it away.

“T’Challa, I know you are engaged, but-”

“I have to go through with it, Bisa…for political reasons. I do not love her,” his voice softened with each word and Bisa let out a sigh.

“So you absolutely have to marry her?”

“If I don’t the Mining and Border tribes will not vote for a proposal I have presented them with for Wakanda’s future. She is the Mining tribe princess, so calling it off would anger K’hari, and this would never go through.”

“I thought the king could declare whatever he wanted.”

“No, we are a lot more democratic than most would believe. I have the final say of course, but they can veto my decisions if the vote is high enough. Checks and balances and whatnot…”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware of that…You know, you should go over and talk to her. I bet she’d like that.”

He shook his head. “I thought I was ready, but I need more time. Especially now. Thank you Bisa, you’ve been a wonderful ear.”

“Anytime, son,” she sent him a wink and he chuckled at her nickname.

T’Challa walked back out the door and gave Taj’s one last glance before heading back to the palace.

——-

After her usual morning routine Ashanti strolled into the bazaar, making her way to her shop. She was in a great mood this morning, having dreamed of T’Challa the night before yet again. The dreams used to bring her to tears when she woke up, but now she welcomed them since they were all she could get. She knew that one day they would eventually fizzle out and stop coming to her, but until then she was going to enjoy getting her dream back blown out by the Black Panther.

As usual, her parents were outside cleaning off tables for the morning rush and when they noticed her, there was a certain gleam in their eyes she couldn’t quite place.

“Hi mama, baba,” she hugged them both. “What’s with the looks? I don’t like this…”

Chidi laughed and turned her around so that she could see her shop. Her jaw dropped in shock at the sight before her.

There on her stoop was a huge bouquet of violets, their purple hue seemed to be even brighter than any violet she had ever seen.

Ashanti peeled herself from her father’s arms and walked across the street in a daze. When she reached her door she could only stare at the flowers, noticing there was a note. She was almost too scared to read it, but her curiosity overruled her fear and she reached for the card.

I am sorry, Ashanti. For everything.

-T

In that moment Ashanti knew for sure that he still loved her. Her heart opened up and tears rolled down her face, some bouncing off the purple petals before hitting the ground. She leaned into them and their sweet smell overwhelmed her senses.

Chidi came over to help her move them inside and he smiled at her before giving her a kiss on her forehead. “Give him a call, nugget,” he advised before heading back across the street to his beaming wife.

“Just ‘give him a call’ huh? It’s that easy?” Ashanti said to herself out loud as Jafari entered the shop.

“Wow, who sent those?!” he exclaimed upon seeing the giant bouquet.

“Oh, uh,” she secretly snatched the card and pocketed it. “They’re a ‘thank you’ from the River tribe elder.”

“Funny, I thought they already sent-”

“What are you doing coming in so early?” she tried to change the subject, but he caught on.

“I was in the area…so who are these really from?” Jafari eyed her closely as she struggled to come up with a lie.

“I-I don’t know. No card, see?” He took a look and didn’t see one.

“Ooooh, bosslady has a secret admirer,” he teased.

“No I don’t, for all we know it could be a ‘thank you’ bouquet from somebody.” Ashanti tried to keep the heat off her.

“It’s too big and fancy for a ‘thank you’ bouquet, plus they would’ve left a note. Someone’s sweet on you Shanti.”

“Maybe…well since you’re here can you take over? I have a call to make.”

“Sure thing,” he winked at her and grabbed the broom from her hand. On her way to her workspace in the back, she heard Zina come in before the two started gossipping about who they thought it could be from. They weren’t even close.

Ashanti stared at her rose gold kimoyo beads for a few minutes before she worked up the nerve to activate her communication bead and call him. When she chose his picture her heartrate picked up as the trilling sound filled the air. It continued for longer than Ashanti was used to, so she ended the call assuming he was busy.

As it turned out, he wasn’t busy at all, he was just too nervous to answer her call. When the ringing stopped, his heart dropped and he immediately called her back. When she picked up they just stared at each other and smiled for a moment.

“They’re beautiful, thank you.”

“Anything for you.”

Her heart skipped a beat, but she broke eye contact and looked away for a moment, reminding herself that no matter how many feelings were still involved she would not let herself become his mistress. She had to keep it together.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, by the way. It wasn’t your fault.”

Now it was his turn to look away, fighting tears that welled up in his eyes. He felt a sense of relief wash over him knowing that she didn’t blame him for the incident.

“I blamed myself for a really long time,” he cleared his throat. “So thank you for saying that.”

She could see the pain in his eyes and it was her turn to feel guilty. Moments of silence passed as she stared into his glassy eyes and she contemplated the choices she made. Had she not left him-

“You did what you had to do, I understand that Ashanti. I was never upset at you, only at myself.”

“You had no reason to be, Challa, it was that evil woman,” Ashanti added, tears welling up in her eyes too.

His heart warmed when she called him Challa. He had missed it more than he realized. “I know that now, but…I knew something was coming, I felt it, but I didn’t know what…and for the longest I let that eat me up inside and I…” He let out a heavy sigh.

“You…?”

“I let it drive me to drink. I am an alcoholic, Ashanti. I have been sober for months now, but I was in a very dark place for a long time.”

“That explains the ginger beer at the party.”

“Oh so you were watching me?”

She blushed and tried to hide her grin.

“Everyone was, you’re the king. Oh I never got to wish you a happy birthday, so here it is: Happy birthday!!!”

The two of them shared a laugh.

“Thank you, I really do appreciate that coming from you,” the king said, staring into her chestnut brown eyes as best as he could on a hologram.

“I’m glad. So I guess since we’re sharing, I um…I was too scared to leave my parents’ house for months. I was paranoid and anxious all the time. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat…it took a long time to get back to semi-normal.”

“Why just semi?”

“Because it never really goes away, Challa. It just becomes manageable.”

He nodded his head in understanding.

“How are you now?” the king inquired.

“It’s much more manageable now, therapy has been good. Having a routine helps. I keep myself busy- oh! Speaking of, your sister is a Bast-send. My jewelry business has been booming ever since I opened my commissions back up, and it’s all thanks to her! And you. So thank you both for that.”

“It is as I said, anything for you.”

“You say that like it’s true.”

“Why isn’t it?”

She paused, thinking over whether she wanted to lay it all out there or not.

“Because you’re getting married.”

——-

Tamala made her way down to Shuri’s lab carrying a basket full of fresh mandazi. She knew the princess had a sweet tooth and figured it would be a good way to bribe her for information. As luck would have it, the prince and princess were both there testing out weaponry. They stopped when they heard the doors swoosh open. When they turned around they both kept their poker faces on as they greeted their future in-law.

“Hi Tamala, what brings you down here?” Shuri asked, trying to sound cheerful.

“Well I came to visit family then figured I’d stop by with these! My mama made them right before I got there so they’re fresh. Have some!” She grabbed one for herself then passed them the basket. They grabbed one each and dug in, surprised at how good they were.

“Damn, tell your mama I said I’m coming to dinner tonight,” N’Jadaka said as he reached for another one.

Tamala ignored him and turned to the princess. “So what are you working on?”

“Weapons,”she responded dryly. Her cousin nudged her in her side and she perked up.

“That sounds cool. Hey, Shuri can I talk to you for a second? Alone, if you don’t mind, N’Jadaka.”

“Nah I don’t mind at all. Need anything from me cuz?”

She mouthed “don’t leave me with her” as Tamala was turned around waving goodbye to the prince. The prince read her lips and chuckled on his way out.

“Aight, catch you at dinner then.”

He jogged up the ramp ignoring Shuri’s piercing gaze. As soon as he was out of sight Tamala turned around and her face immediately took on a seriousness that Shuri had never seen from her.

“Shuri I have to ask you a question and I need you to be completely honest with me. Please, as your sister.”

“Ok…” Shuri was nervous about what she might ask, she was such a bad liar…

“Who is Ashanti?”

Her eyes widened and she had to think quickly about how this needed to go.

“Ashanti…oh the artist? Yes she made necklaces for me and mama a while ago. You’ve seen them-”

“Is that the same Ashanti T’Challa knows?” Tamala asked the nervous princess.

“T’Challa knows so many people-” Shuri struggled to make eye contact with her future sister-in-law and that was all the confirmation she needed. It would be easy to find her now.

The next day, Tamala and her personal Dora Milaje warriors walked through the bazaar causing a scene. The princess had never been seen alone with Doras before, so this was a big moment and Tamala was eating it up. She loved the attention she received as the people moved out of her way to let her pass, it made her feel powerful. That feeling is exactly what she needed to harness in this moment, powerful.

Tamala made it to Taj’s and stared at the storefront in disgust. Through the window she could see the same woman he had been staring at all night at his birthday party and she felt sick to her stomach. Just how long had this bitch been hanging around her man?

Two of her Dora opened the doors for her to enter as the customers left the shop to give her space, unused to royalty moving through the city so aggressively. Ashanti turned to see what was going on and the shock on her face was readable all the way from the door where Tamala stood.

“Hello, are you Ashanti?”

“Y-yes I am your highness.” She saluted her and felt her blood boil.

“Well aren’t you…pretty. Hm. I hear you make custom pieces?”

“Yes, I do,” Ashanti said, scared she knew where this was going.

“Good. Well as you know, I’m getting married in a few weeks. I would like you to make me a necklace fit for a queen. Since that is what I’ll be…his queen, Ashanti.”

The artist’s breath caught in her throat. She knew Tamala had to have found out about the flowers or the calls or the texts they had sent each other in the days following their reconnection. They kept it PG, but there was definitely some flirting going on despite the need to remain platonic.

“Ok. Do you have any inspiration or a design in mind?” Ashanti’s voice trembled.

“No.”

“Ok, um-”

“We both know I’m not here for a necklace, Ashanti.” Tamala said as she leaned on the end of the counter..

Ashanti’s legs trembled under her long flowy skirt and her voice caught in her throat. This was the worst case scenario.

“How long have you been seeing him?”

“Who?”

“Don’t play dumb. My fiance, how long have you been seeing him?” Tamala’s voice rose as she got more and more frustrated with the Merchant girl.

“T’Challa? We’re not-”

“Do not lie to me, I know you have something going on with him.”

“Princess, I promise. We were together over a year ago, not now.”

Tamala stood back up from her perch.

“Then why is he calling your name when he sleeps? Tell me that.”

“I-I don’t-”

“You know what? Save it, just don’t come near him ever again or once I am his queen I will have you exiled from Wakanda.” Tamala said in a huff before storming out of the shop, Dora Milaje in tow. It was about time to close anyway so Ashanti shuffled her feet towards the door to lock up and draw the shades. She could see her parents out in front of the restaurant waiting to talk to her, but she decided to go out the back door and sneak home without talking to anyone. Binta was on a date with Kiki and Kwame had gone to stay with Omar for the weekend, so she knew she would have the house all to herself.

Her beads buzzed, signifying a text. She saw that it was from T’Challa and she erased it before even reading it.

Ashanti stripped herself naked and stared at herself in the mirror for a while before turning on the hot water in her bathtub and filling it up just the right amount before sliding in. The lavender bath bomb she dropped in the water had turned the bath purple and she thought of her breathtaking violets. She knew she couldn’t continue to talk to him and that it was really and truly over now, but she could preserve the flowers and keep them forever. She needed to have something beautiful come out of the last two years.

Not wanting to sit in silence, she called out to her kimoyo AI.

“Hey Kim, play music.”

The tears that had threatened to fall from her eyes finally made the leap as the opening chords to “Bambi” played throughout her bathroom.

——

Two days had gone by and Ashanti still hadn’t responded to him. T’Challa had tried texting and calling her, but the calls weren’t even going through anymore. She had him blocked or changed her number without telling him. Either way, he was upset at the sudden loss of contact, but he knew Ashanti wouldn’t just do that for no reason, so something had to have happened to change her heart so quickly.

The king was visibly tense during the council meeting and even more aggressive in sparring with Okoye and his cousin, which neither one of them were opposed to. By day three he had finally had enough and marched down to his sister’s lab. N’Jadaka was there trying out a new upgrade to the Jaguar habit and T’Challa was relieved they were all in one place so he wouldn’t have to do this twice.

“Ayy, what up cuzzo? Like the new threads?” N’Jadaka’s new upgrade included more visible spots than the last one and he was loving the print.

“Looks good on you.” T’Challa tried to muster up some cheer but couldn’t.

“Why the sour face?” Shuri asked her brother, finally looking away from the screen in front of her and noticing his scowl.

“This stays between the three of us.”

His family nodded and looked on with concern.

“I had been…speaking with Ashanti again-”

“Oh no.” Shuri thought she only said in her head.

“What do you mean oh no?” T’Challa was confused at his sister’s reaction. He knew she loved Ashanti like a sister, so her response made no sense.

“I-I mean, um, you finish telling your story then I’ll um, yeah…” Shuri stumbled out.

N’Jadaka sat back and observed them both in his usual way, sure he knew exactly where this was going.

“Ok, well…long story short, we bumped into each other, then I sent her flowers, and we had been texting and calling back and forth platonically since then…until a few days ago. She just stopped and now my calls won’t go through.”

“Wow, so you and Ashanti huh? Tryna get that old thang back?” the prince joked before getting serious when his big cousin shot him a look. “You know I support you, but you gotta be real careful man. You’re getting married in like three weeks, just keep that in mind.”

“Yes, I know but-” he was cut off by a sniffle coming from his sister. “Usisi, what is wrong?” His arm wrapped around her shoulder.

“Tamala, she asked me about Ashanti the other day…all I told her was she was the artist who made our necklaces. She said that she heard you say her name in your sleep…”

“Daaaaaamn,” N’Jadaka said exactly what T’Challa felt in that moment. He knew his sister meant no harm, but somehow Tamala had gotten to Ashanti.

The king knew he had two options. He could drop in on Ashanti and try to make things right or he could confront Tamala. He chose the latter so as not to upset Ashanti any further than she surely already was thanks to his fiancee. He excused himself from the lab before giving Tamala a call. Almost immediately after it started to ring, she answered.

“Hi baby!” she answered with a fake smile on her face.

“Hello Tamala, are you busy?” he asked, keeping his voice even.

“Not too busy for you, I just finished-”

“Great, will you meet me at the panther cave in an hour?”

“Sure thing, baby. Is everything ok?”

“Yes everything is fine. See you in an hour.” T’Challa ended the call and ran his hand over his face in exasperation. If he still drank he would have poured himself a glass right about now. To distract himself, he returned to the lab to check out the new upgrades to the Jaguar habit.

Tamala arrived at the cave early since she had been at her parents’ house not too far from there. Her nerves had gotten the best of her when she realized he didn’t seem to be in the best mood and her mind raced over the possibilities until it landed on the one thing she could think of. Her.

When T’Challa arrived a few minutes later she tried to keep a straight face, but her attitude seeped through and he could sense it a mile away. He sighed and rolled his eyes, they hadn’t even had the conversation yet and here she was, already mad.

“Could this have waited until later?” she asked him, annoyance clear on her face.

“What’s the matter now? You were just in a good mood an hour ago.”

“You tell me, T’Challa.”

He could feel his blood pressure starting to rise so he took a couple deep breaths to calm himself.

“Don’t act like a spoiled child, talk.”

“Oh I’m the spoiled child? Ha! Says the man who wants to have his cake and eat it too.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I am to be your wife and she is not, so you should act accordingly if you want your little proposal to go through.”

A tense silence followed, his suspicions confirmed. The smug look on Tamala’s face irked him to his core because he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

“So who is this ‘she’ you’re referring to?” he asked for clarification.

“Do not play dumb, T’Challa, it does not look good on you. I am talking about your precious Ashanti. I don’t know how long you have been seeing her behind my back, but it ends today.”

“She is my ex and a friend-”

“I saw how you looked at her, she’s not a friend T’Challa…and she’s also not a concern anymore,” she said flippantly.

“What do you mean?” he took a step forward as she stepped back, bumping into the cave wall as he descended upon her slowly, prowling like a cat.

“I mean, I-I-”

“What did you do?” his voice grew, instilling fear in her heart at the cold look behind his eyes.

“N-nothing, I just told her to leave you alone or-”

“Or?”

“Or I’d have her exiled when I become queen.”

“You will do no such thing!”

He pulled back and lowered his voice when he saw the fear in her eyes.

“And no harm will come to her if you know what is good for you.” he turned to leave but stopped and faced her once more. “You may be my queen, but she will always have my heart. Do not forget this is simply an arrangement.”

With that, he turned and walked out of the cave, heading straight for the Talon. As soon as his shadow disappeared from the cave wall Tamala broke down in tears. She knew he didn’t share her feelings, but she didn’t know just how little he cared. After a few minutes of crying, she regained her composure and sat against the wall with her knees at her chest contemplating her future. She had to do something, or the rest of her life she would be stuck in a loveless marriage, but she couldn’t think of what. Eventually it hit her, and the realization broke her heart.

She would have to call it off.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @maddeningmayhem, @theblulife

#cecewritessometimes #black panther fic #t'challa x oc #t'challa #black!oc #playlist

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ikkaku-of-heart · 3 years

Text

Her Brother's Blood is on His Hands

(Originally written for @heart-pirates-week for Ikkaku’s day with the prompt “Family” but ended up being delayed until now. Inspired by discussions with @shambledsurgeon and @medicus-mortem)

Ikkaku awoke slowly, the persistent beeping of a heart monitor resembling that of a particularly slow but annoying alarm clock. She tried to sit up but a sharp pain in her side dissuaded her, so she was forced to remain on her back, looking around at the sterile walls of the infirmary. She was hooked up to an IV, there were several machines monitoring her vitals, and she could feel the pressure of tightly-wound bandages around her torso and arms.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Law said from the chair at her bedside, putting down the medical book he’d been reading. The circles under his eyes appeared darker than usual, but his grin was comforting and sure. “I was beginning to wonder if we’d have to resort to drastic measures to wake Sleeping Beauty.”

“Law?” she asked weakly, grimacing at how hoarse she sounded due to the dryness of her throat. “The fuck happened?”

“Gonna have to be more specific,” he stated as he carefully helped prop her up enough that she could safely drink some water. “Do you mean how did you end up here? Maybe the extent of your wounds? Or how about what, exactly, I did to the fucker who hurt you?”

Her eyes widened as she recalled what had happened. She’d been taking a walk with Jean Bart, venting about how much she hated that they were now government dogs because Law’d insisted on handing the Navy one hundred hearts. They’d run into a squad of Marines. Her brother’s squad, to be exact. Ushi had decided it was pointless trying to climb the Navy ranks the normal way, and thus had come up with the idea of sucking up to the Celestial Dragons. And what better way to do so than to return to Saint Rosward his wayward slave?

Heart clenching at the thought of her shipmate being handed back over to those bastards, she asked, “Is Jean—”

“He’s fine. Discharged yesterday,” Law promised, nodding towards the empty bed on the other side of the room. He picked up a chart, studying it as he continued, “Needed a lot of stitches for the lacerations across his back and arms, but nothing life-threatening.”

“Good,” she sighed in relief. He hadn’t been killed or taken. Jean Bart would continue to live as a free man for a while longer. He deserved that much.

“Was quite the sight, seeing him charging towards the ship, covered in blood, carrying you like a baby while you bled out from a stab wound,” he commented, voice even, though there was an unmistakable tightness in his jaw. “I’m just glad he managed to tell me who’d done this to you two before he passed out.”

White teeth sank into her bottom lip, guilt pulsing through her. That’s right. It hadn’t exactly been a victory. They’d managed to take down most of the Marines, but Ushi had managed to get behind her, and then there’d been excruciating pain as he’d driven a knife deep into her side…

“I’m sorry, Captain,” she whispered, black curls hiding her face as she hung her head in shame.

“The hell are you apologizing for?” he asked, gold eyes flicking up from the clipboard and narrowing in displeasure.

She wrung her hands, anxious and guilty. “Jean Bart got hurt because of my family baggage.”

“He got hurt because of an opportunistic asshole who decided that Jean being under the protection of a shichibukai didn’t matter,” he snapped. Pausing, he took a deep breath to compose himself. “The fact that said asshole came out of the same uterus as you is irrelevant.”

“We both know that’s not true,” she countered, refusing to look at him. “He targeted the Hearts because of me. He always has. And he wouldn’t have been able to go after Jean Bart if I’d let you kill him years ago. Or killed him myself. You deserve a subordinate with the stones to kill her own brother.”

Internally, she berated herself for that last part. None of this would be a problem if she’d just toughened up and put an end to that bastard. Why did she always seem to stop herself? Morality? Because she knew how heartbroken her parents would be? Because even years later, she was still scared of her childhood boogeyman?

Her thoughts were disturbed by the clipboard lightly smacking her on the head in reproach. It didn’t hurt, but Ikkaku rubbed her head anyway, frowning up at her captain. “You trying to knock me unconscious again?”

“If that’s what it takes to get you to stop talking bullshit,” he retorted. He glared at her for a moment before letting out a sigh, a tattooed hand falling heavily on her shoulder. “Ikkaku,” Law stated, tone brokering no argument, “what I deserve is a subordinate with the stones to stand up to a power-hungry bastard looking to sell her nakama to a bunch of delusional inbred freaks, which that’s exactly what I’ve got. And what you deserve is to not get stabbed in the spleen by your own blood.”

Well. It was hard to argue that logic. “I guess. But next time—”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“You don’t know that.”

The hand on her shoulder fell away to flip through the pages of her chart. “Ikkaku, you nearly bled out before you even got to the sub. You’re lucky Shachi and Penguin share your blood type and were basically tripping over themselves to donate. I had to replace your spleen and left kidney, and if that knife had gone in at a slightly different angle, he could have punctured your stomach or lung. In other words, this bastard nearly cost me my engineer. You’ve known me for goin’ on five years now; do you really think that once you were stable I just sat around twiddling my thumbs while I waited for you to wake up?”

Dark eyes widened in realization. “Did you kill him?”

“Would you be mad if I said I had?”

No. Not at him at least, but she still felt like she’d let him down by not being able to do it herself. “He shouldn’t have been your problem to solve.”

“You’re right. He shouldn’t have been a problem,” he replied harshly. Before Ikkaku could internally berate herself further, though, Law ran a hand through his hair in frustration, and there was a spark of guilt in his eyes. “No Marine should have even touched you guys. That’s supposed to be one of the fucking perks of being a shichibukai. I told you when I took this damn title that you be safe and look how that turned out.”

Yes, that had been a major argument between them, hadn’t it? For Ikkaku, not wanting to be affiliated with the World Government hadn’t just been a matter of pride or general hatred for the bastards who ran the world – she’d been afraid. Terrified that her brother would be waiting for her around every corner. That he’d find a way to get her alone, to finish the job he’d started when she was seven, to finally get her out of his hair. Law had promised she’d be safe, that he wouldn’t let him so much as breath near her. Eventually, she’d come to believe him, but things hadn’t gone to plan.

“You can’t blame yourself for Ushi not following the rules, Law,” she insisted. Yeah, she could have berated him for not listening to her, but in reality, Law’s logic had been sound; Ushi shouldn’t have dared to try anything. Ikkaku didn’t just have the Hearts protecting her anymore – the Navy itself had become another obstacle in his way. She should have been safe.

However, even she hadn’t fully considered why Ushi would go this far, but in hindsight, it made sense. Last she’d checked, he hadn’t been promoted in a while. Hadn’t advanced as quickly as he wanted or earned any accolades for heroism like everyone back home had been expecting. He was a commodore still – not even a rear-admiral, and his name didn’t strike fear into the hearts of pirates like Smoker’s did.

Because he’d been put on a pedestal, her brother had always gotten away with everything, which had only enforced his cruel and abusive nature. The whole island had believed that he’d become a famous Marine and boost their reputation, which was why they’d been willing to overlook the bruises that littered his sister’s arms, or the fact that she’d gone missing for three days while under his care.

If he’d come home a failure, everyone would have to finally admit he was nothing but a twisted, cruel bully. And instead of accepting the blame for enabling, they’d likely make him answer for his crimes.

But more than that, he’d be forced to accept that he was never that special to begin with, and she knew a man as arrogant as him wouldn’t be able to bear that.

Shaking her head, she almost felt pity for him. “Ushi was desperate, and desperate men are unpredictable as fuck. You couldn’t have known he’d be crazy enough to try to suck up to the Celestial Dragons.”

“Neither of us could have known, but I still could have protected you better,” Law retorted, crossing his arms. He still didn’t look fully convinced of his own absolution, but he declared quite plainly, “The fact is, brothers shouldn’t murder their younger siblings, or even try to.”

Well, not even Ikkaku could argue that.

But actions had consequences, and there was still a strong chance Law’s retaliation, justified or not, would bite him in the ass.

“Ushi might have been no one special, but the Navy’s not going to be happy about you killing one of their own,” she said, genuinely worried. Even if Ushi had been going against orders, shichibukai weren’t supposed to attack their Marine allies. What if they decided to strip Law of his new title? Sure, she hated that he was a government dog, but it was a vital part of his plan to take down Joker, and if that had been stripped away because he’d recklessly pursued revenge on her behalf…

The way he smirked at her belied that he didn’t share even a fraction of her concern. “The Navy’ll have a hell of a time pinning a murder on me when there’s no evidence. It’s unlikely he was ordered to attack you and Jean Bart, so there’s no paper trail. The man was obsessed with advancing up the ladder, so likely only a select few are even aware you’re related, thus no one knows of his unfortunate connection to the Heart Pirates. And unless they plan on gutting a bunch of Sea Kings and piecing together chunks of half-digested flesh, I doubt they’ll find enough of his body to even determine his cause of death.”

“You fed him to Sea Kings?”

“His remains, at least. As for how I killed him…well, I won’t bore you with the details.”

It was highly doubtful what he’d done could be described as boring, but Ikkaku decided not to press him. Knowing Law, it had been slow, painful, and had probably involved dissection. “You didn’t have to do all that for me, Captain.”

He dismissed her concerns with a casual wave of his hand. “Of course I did. You’re family. Besides, if I hadn’t, the rest of the crew would have gone after him themselves, and they wouldn’t have done as good a job covering their tracks. Or made him scream quite as loud. No offense to them, but conventional torture methods just can’t match the agony of having your heart slowly crushed to a pulp.”

Was she a bad person for not feeling sick at the thought of her oldest brother—her own blood—being subjected to the Surgeon of Death’s sadism? That instead of anger or disgust, she felt relieved? Sure, he was a massive piece of shit who deserved to die for everything he’d done to her, her other brothers, and who knows what else, but he was still family, wasn’t he?

No. The Hearts were family. Law was family. He was right – Ushi was blood, but he wasn’t her brother.

Law’s brow furrowed with concern and he reached forward, cupping her cheeks and wiping tears away with his thumbs. Ikkaku hadn’t even realized she was crying.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he said, looking genuinely guilty. “I shouldn’t have overstepped like that. I should have at least waited until you were awake and asked—”

Though she was tired and weak and it took far more effort than she’d like, Ikkaku lifted her arm and flicked Law squarely in the forehead. He didn’t quite flinch back, but he did give her an annoyed grunt, but his brow did smooth out when he saw her bright smile.

“Thank you,” she said, cheeks streaked with tears but voice warm with love and affection and gratitude. It might take a while for her to fully accept that Ushi was no longer laying in wait at every Marine base, but for now, she could breath a little easier. The monster from her childhood had finally been vanquished.

Trafalgar Law might not have been a knight in shining armor, but he was something better. He was the big brother she’d always wished for.

Relieved that she wasn’t angry, Law gave her a tiny but sincere grin back. His engineer was alive, safe, and giving him that sunny smile that could light up a room. Well worth the blood on his hands, and quietly, he vowed to keep her, and the rest of his Hearts, safe from whatever hell might come their way.

They were a loyal bunch of fools, but they were his family. He’d set the world on fire before allowing anything to happen to them.

A hand adorned with the word DEATH retreated from Ikkaku’s cheek to ruffle her hair. “Don’t mention it.”

#The Engine is the Heart of the Ship (canon)#Join the Hearts: We Have Uniforms #Heart Siblings #Drabble #(been wanting to go into what happens to Ushi during the timeskip)#(and how it would definitely be Law that kills him instead of Ikkaku)#(hope people like this!)#(not sure about the title but it's the best I could think of without being cheesy or cliche)

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argotmagazine-blog · 5 years

Text

Hysto

I had my reproductive organs voluntarily removed at twenty-two years-old. I’d like to imagine they’re pickled and floating in a jar waiting to be dissected. This is not the first time the distance between myself and my body has become literal; my perfectly healthy flesh and blood are my own worst enemy. My body is company I can only hold at this distance, like a prism against the ceiling light, a spectrum full of indecipherable color. A piece of me, somewhere, is gone.

There’s a lot of hand-wringing about what it means for a transgender person to have surgery. I had to refuse any and all food and liquid, a seemingly impossible task for raging coffee-addict. I gingerly walked up the women’s and infant’s clinic front-desk alone, and told them that I was indeed, the patient being operated on this afternoon. To any passing stranger, I was a young man asking about his partner, wife, child. The reality was I stumbled over my words, with sweat on my forehead as the clerk found my name and said I needed to sign paperwork.

“Are you the patient?” the clerk asked me. I don’t recall anything unique about her. She looked me over with the type of familiarity she might give an unpleasant co-worker’s child.

I say yes. At this point, there’s no going back.

Cue me being asked to follow the dotted yellow lines into a room where I’m met with a dark hallway—not unlike the one from Barton Fink. It was surreal and slightly off-putting, like a dim forgotten corner of a movie set. I walked into the office to sign the consent forms and am asked to follow more yellow dotted lines to another department. In a matter of hours, I would be put to a sleep and operated on, as if none of this preamble ever happened.

I couldn’t help but be reminded of the yellow-brick road Judy Garland and her dog dutifully traveled on to see the wizard, a mystical hermit in his emerald towers. The Wizard of Oz was an obsession in my single-parent household. The stripes on the floor are intended to guide patients and their families, but I went through this all alone, feeling like Dorothy after her house crashed on top of a poor witch. I want to apologize for intruding, for bringing this body into a women’s space, but because of my sex this is where the surgery must take place. It’s frustrating introducing myself; I’m ready as I’ll ever be for the procedure.

When a trans body enters a hospital, it’s as easy as being sucked up into a tornado. It’s swept away from a sepia-hued world into a hyper-visible, technicolor land of prying eyes and confused stares. It’s enough to give anyone cold feet. But there are medical fees for that. There are dollar signs flying like winged-monkeys everywhere. Legal paperwork saying I’m someone else might as well be a house dropping down on my head. That it clearly says they have the wrong patient.

But I had a letter saying I was supposed to be here, for this, I emphasized to the clerk, being as vague as possible. The surgery. I’m piss-broke and have just signed away a significant amount of money to pay for a surgery I would never be able to afford without my Ivy League college insurance.

Nice people get what they want and I wanted to have my organs removed to become a better, more whole person because of it. I was determined to find my ruby slippers, slap them together, and walk out to attend class next week like nothing happened. In retrospect, this is the apex of the overachiever mentality: going in for major surgery on Friday and talking about Foucault the following Monday.

I was used to trying to appeal to others for respect, so I smiled and nodded with every well- intentioned “miss” and “m’am” knowing all too well that the clinical description of “gender identity disorder” was stamped on every page of my paperwork. This was the nature of the beast, and I was lost in this Oz world, stumbling my way along, doing my best not to make myself too noticeable. All I wanted was to go home, metaphorically, into a body I could better recognize myself in. I had a big house crash in on my life and it was the body I lived in.

The DSM-5 now calls “gender identity disorder” “gender dysphoria disorder,” which supposedly lessens the stigma attached to transgender people. But bodies are messy and on principal, they’re subject to change regardless of how we choose to talk about them. This is inherently a problem with language and how culture violently twists and depicts trans bodies. I’m not here to entertain baseless arguments about people wanting to cut off limbs because they “think they should be an amputee.” Here was the brick wall in my transition: squishy organs, ripe for the picking.

Fixating on what people ought to do to their body isn’t new or exciting. I’m interested in the visceral messiness of the experience, the bureaucratic ritualism that preludes any endeavor to present ourselves to medical institutions. The mechanical process of sex-related surgery isn’t exciting. I doubt those other than the morbidly curious and skeptical would find the technicalities illuminating. It’s boring being a transgender person going under the knife. Waiting for surgery is like watching grass grow—nothing ever happens. It’s miles upon miles of dotted lines, signatures, and the sound of your own urine splashing against a measurement cup minutes before you’re on the gurney.

I spent my recovery watching gross, schlocky movies. It’s comforting losing myself in the screen, doing my best to get into another person’s head. It’s a good enough distraction from picturing the sinews of my abdomen healing together, my pelvic muscles recoiling after being sliced open for the surgery to take place. My gruesome tendencies go wild—I want to imagine all sorts of morbid transformations taking place where my uterus once was. I pictured it like the scene in The Fly, where Jeff Goldblum realizes he’s growing tiny insectoid feelers on his forearms. This scene is not unlike my own discoveries of individual chin hairs after years of injecting testosterone.

Compared to most transgender men, I’m about as masculine as a naked mole-rat. My body will now require synthetic hormones to be injected on a weekly basis in order to maintain itself. This is something I of course discussed at lengths for months with my doctor. There’s no problem here—I became obsessed with my own boredom waiting for my body to heal. I felt abnormally well.

I fantasized about a creature inside of me ready to burst out like an Alien parasite, announcing that I’m here, finally in this new home I call my meat and flesh. But no abomination will come tearing me open from the inside-out. Only my own ennui ready to swallow itself whole like Ouroboros.

The monster analogies are easy—Frankenstein, Chimera, test-tube creatures. Walking through the world with this body is the equivalent of hiding the fact you are, partially, the product of someone else’s handiwork. This is how I’ve come to terms with own sense of monstrosity, the jagged edges of my body that don’t quite all fit together.

Scholar Susan Stryker describes the trans body in her essay/performance piece My Words To Victor Frankenstein Above the Village of Chamounix:

“The transsexual body is an unnatural body. It is the product of medical science. It is a technological construction. It is flesh torn apart and sewn together again in a shape other than that in which it was born.”

The trans body is both the site of medical and technological impact, crashing into each other violently to make beautiful results. The Frankenstein-qualities of a body that will need hormones to survive is admirable to me—it’s a powerful announcement of my own autonomy, the desire to live in a world constantly trying to kill me. I cut ties with the old biological demands of my old body for a new one, tailored to fit, in a form from “flesh torn apart.” This cycle began when I had chest reconstruction surgery and my hysterectomy is another symbolic middle-finger to the world. I have the agency to sew this body back together, transform it an optimized, beautiful living being.

When I inject my weekly hormones, I feel euphoria. I feel my body re-organize itself when I complete a dose. It’s an all-consuming experience that demands a concentrated up-keep of syringes, doses, needles, and gauges. To reject what I was given, I reach out for the tools at hand, become my own cyborg, someone who builds out of what’s despised.

From Testo Junkie by Paul B. Preciado:

“I’m not taking testosterone to change myself into a man or as a physical strategy of transsexualism; I take it to foil what society wanted to make of me, so that I can write, fuck, feel a form of pleasure that is post-pornographic, add a molecular prostheses to my low-tech transgender identity composed of dildos, texts, and moving images; I do it to avenge your death.”

Letting myself be used, medically, is an act of freedom. In his introduction to Testo Junkie, Preciado announces an “low-tech transgender identity” in conversation with the death of those he knows and loves. The consequences of dying, either on or off the surgery table, are all the same: the muscles give out and the body finally rests. Preciado and Stryker speak on the dissociation and pain of the trans body better than I ever could—the body isn’t one object, but a collection of “Frankenstein-qualities” and “dildos, texts, and moving images.” It’s an amalgamation of lost pieces sewn back together to make a façade that lasts just long enough, a shelter that endures just enough rough weather to survive. It’s a house, albeit one that crashed from the sky long ago.

Strewn on my bed, with my flesh bending itself back into shape, I couldn’t help but return to the image of bloodied meat. The recovery process is blinding, painful, and full of medication. My mind wandered to Elvira Weishaupt’s monologue in the climatic slaughterhouse scene of Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s In a Year of 13 Moons, in which a transgender woman recounts her childhood nostalgia with a friend. The scene is brutal, with vivid, long shots of cows being partially decapitated, their bloody flesh bare as Elvira speaks. Elvira is abused and traumatized by the men in her life after genital confirmation surgery, after which she commits suicide. The film, released in 1978—only one year before Janice Raymond published her hateful The Transexual Empire—explicitly associates the transformation of Elvira’s body with the carnage and violence that comes with production-line slaughterhouses. The transgender body is a site of mutilation and damage—surgeries only leave emotional and physical gashes that cannot heal, according to Fassbinder. The sentiment of the film is not empowering nor approving of transgender people’s autonomy in determining their own biology. It’s a moment of disgust and the re-opening of traumatic wounds by recollecting memories of a past body, one that the speaker cannot cling on to anymore.

The body is easily destroyed. It is also easily rebuilt, as sinews and connecting tissue regrow, the body regenerates itself, waking up again after being dormant. It’s amazingly resilient. A new flesh can spawn from the shrivel and bloodied remains of the last occupant—the meat of the body isn’t a dying thing. It grows and becomes—my scars now are just that now, only scars.

I still don’t know what the proper response is when people ask about the surgery.

It’s just a pinch, I want to tell them. A snap of the wrists. A crack of the skull.

A bullet to the heart. A fist to the eye.

That word, transsexual, hanging heavy and wet on a company’s tongue, because you had the dollar to your name and the will to live. Sticks and stones.

My body is vetting itself down the yellow brick road, hitting all the speed bumps along the way. It’s as good as broken. I like it this way.

Blake Planty loves crawling the web at the witching hour. He has fiction and essays published and forthcoming in Nat Brut, DREGINALD, Heavy Feather Review, Waxwing, The Fanzine, Tenderness Lit, and more. Find him talking about cyborgs and coffee at @_dispossessed on Twitter and online at catboy.club.

#trans #transition #trans experiences #medicine #bodies #personal essay #survival #body image #Blake Planty

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